


Eye of the Beholder

by BMP



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Drama, Gen, Magnificent Seven AU: ATF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 09:15:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BMP/pseuds/BMP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A triptych on how to speak Chris and Buck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Parapraxis

**Author's Note:**

> These characters do not belong to the author (but if it was my sandbox, I’d let YOU play in it…) That said, this story was written purely for self entertainment and no money is being made, has changed hands, or has been paid out for the contents therein. The author would like to thank: 1) MOG for the ATF AU, she came up with it, and graciously lets other play there, 2) Charlotte for her generous feedback and discussions on characterization and what makes these boys tick. Also, for giving these stories a home on Ellie's Drinking-and-Fighting archive, and also 3) GSister for beta-ing and all around nagging. Without her insistence, these stories would be read by very few. 
> 
> “I stole 'em from someone who stole 'em first. There's no honor among thieves, so steal 'em from me if you want 'em.” ~BMP
> 
> ~Constructive Criticism will be passed on to the author  
> ~Flames will be used to toast marshmallows  
> ~Originally posted on DNF 3/06/2005

We met for lunch. How could I not? This time they sent out the big guns—Bob Dedricks, old buddy, old pal. “Meet me at the Chicago Grill,” he says. “On me.” Man, they must be getting desperate.  
  
So I met him. After all, it’s just rude to keep puttin’ off an old friend—even when you know the only reason you’re meeting is because he wants to throw a job offer at you and that you’re just gonna refuse for the hundredth time or so.  
  
Change in plans, though. This time they changed their strategy. “I’ll come get you,” he says on the phone.  
  
I give him the directions to the federal building. Figured I’d have security call me down, but this time Wily Bob makes it up the stairs right into the team bullpen. Now, I ask you, what the hell kind of security is that? This is the ATF for God’s sake.  
  
The bullpen is where me an’ my teammates have our desks. There are seven of us. An’ this is home base when we ain’t sittin’ in some dirt pile warehouse waitin’ to bust some gunrunners or gettin’ shot at by the bad guys we’re tryin’ to bust—which happens a lot. At the risk of bragging—not that I mind a little bragging—we’re the best team in the Western region. Possibly the whole country, though the brass’d never give us the satisfaction of tellin’ us, even if we were. Officially, we’re Team Seven. Unofficially, I’ve heard they call us the  _Magnificent_ Seven.  
  
Anyway, I know why ol’ Bob snuck up this time. Denver PD sent him out to get the job done this time. To dangle a nice juicy carrot in front of my nose and get me to come back. And I’m guessin’ someone finally told him the reason I don’t come back, the reason I’m sittin’ pretty in the ATF, with those Feds we used to make fun of when we were cops.  
  
We? Oh, that’s right, I said “we.” We. Right. That’ll take a little explainin’. An’ I’ll probably be explainin’ it to Bob right through that big fat steak he’ll be buyin’ me.   
  
I put on my best grin and meet him at the bullpen door. I meet him at the door ‘cause my boss, the team leader, Chris Larabee’s in his office, meaner than a rattler with his tail in a mouse trap, rippin’ Ezra Standish, our undercover agent, a new one, and nobody, who ain’t part of the team, needs to hear that. The rest of the boys ain’t sayin’ a single word—mostly ‘cause they’re all tryin’ so hard to hear what Chris is sayin’.   
  
I try to press Bob back out into the hall. No dice. He comes right on in, and introduces himself. Funny he don’t notice that annoyed look they all get. I try not to sigh as I do the polite thing and tell them all that I knew him on the DPD. He gets the polite nod. Even from the kid, who looks suddenly defensive, like he knows why Bob is here and thinks I might bite.  
  
Just then, the office door (the only actual office in the bullpen, mind you) opens up and Ezra Standish saunters out, with a little extra swagger and pullin’ on the cuffs of his Armani suit in that arrogant way he has, which tells me that Chris’s little reamin’ has hit home.   
  
A nasty black storm cloud rolls out right behind him. Tall, blond, tough as nails and dressed all in black. Just the scowl on his face would tell a normal man to run.   
  
And when Bob turns, I can tell by the look on his face that this is what he came up to the bullpen for. To get a look at him. To see Chris Larabee: U.S. Navy SEAL, homicide detective, federal agent, legend.  
  
See, Bob wasn’t there when Chris an’ me were partners. He came during the two years Chris was gone. Gone’s a good word for it. His family—my family, too, if you want to know the truth, but they were Chris’s wife, Sarah, and little boy Adam—was killed by some sadistic bomb-building bastard, who was probably tryin’ to get Chris. Chris wasn’t in the car, but just losin’ them practically killed him. He used that violent temper of his to push everything and everyone he cared about away, including me and the Denver PD. Then he lit out for the hills.   
  
Somehow the ATF found him. And then he found me. I up and left the DPD, just like that, for Chris’s new, experimental ATF team. All handpicked by Chris, starting with his number one. Me.   
  
Chris, now, he ain’t doin’ much to give Bob a good first impression. He wouldn’t. He doesn’t know Bob and doesn’t give a rat’s ass what Bob might think of him. He’s just watchin’ Ezra make it back to his desk and do what Chris “god damn ordered him to do.” Now he’s scowlin’ at me.   
  
I clear my throat and introduce Bob. Bob is cheerful and polite. He gets a grunt in return for his good manners. I get the evil eye. The one that says I better get my ass back in the office sober and in a reasonable amount of time or there’ll be hell to pay. It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. But I don’t.   
  
“Wow!” Bob says once we’re in the elevator. He’s shakin’ his head. “Bad day?” he asks, laughing.  
  
I shrug. “Pretty typical,” I reply. Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but he don’t need to know that.  
  
He doesn’t get into it until we’re at the grill and the apps are served. Then he starts, and I almost laugh ‘cause he thinks he’s subtle.  
  
“So that was the famous Chris Larabee,” he muses, almost to himself.  
  
“The one and only,” I say.   
  
“Got a temper, I guess,” Bob says with a grin.  
  
I outright laugh at that one. Anyone who’s ever  _heard_  of Larabee knows he has a temper.   
  
Bob shakes his head. “Man, if anyone treated me like that, I’d quit. In a heartbeat.” He snaps his fingers to show me just how fast he’d be outta there. Not that I’m surprised. Chris would have him chewed up and spat out somewhere between that head nod that passes for “good morning” and his first cup of coffee.   
  
Ol’ Bob suddenly looks at me real curious like, as if he’s just realized what he’s said. “He doesn’t treat you like that does he?”  
  
I shove a piece of garlic bread in my mouth and look at him cockeyed, just the way Chris looks at me when he’s practically reading my mind. I answer, “From time to time.”  
  
Bob shakes his head sympathetically.  
  
When the steaks come, he lays the cards on the table.   
  
Shoot, I tell you, they must really want me bad. They must. They’ll reinstate my detective status and accrued seniority. Pay’s pretty tempting too. I’d get to be in charge of a small, elite squad, kinda like Team Seven. Hours’d suck. It ain’t like that’d be much of a change. But I don’t bite.   
  
So what’s the problem? That’s what Bob is tryin’ to figure out. An’ I’m tryin’ like hell not to smirk.   
  
I’m tryin’ not to smirk ‘cause he’s playin’ what he figures is his trump card. The lieutenant. Yeah, I know the guy. Yeah, he’s got a good rep for bein’ tough but fair. Yeah, he does good work. And yeah, he’s real good at dealin’ with people. An’ I’ll never get reamed out like I do now. Or threatened with just a look. I’m thinkin’ that the lieut probably won’t haul off and deck me when he gets pissed either... (‘Course I give as good as I get—and sometimes even when I don’t get.)  
  
I thank Bob politely, but I turn the DPD down again. He looks mystified, shaking his head, like he can’t believe what a dumb ass I am. For a minute I think about explaining, explaining about the team, about our rep, that they’re practically family to me, but that ain’t what’s mystifin’ him. It’s Chris.   
  
Yeah, he’s stubborn, hard headed, bad tempered, and mean. He’s got a fist that hits like a rock at the end of a jackhammer. Believe me, I know. And he’ll reduce you to a pile of smoldering ash with one nasty green-eyed glare. I’d tell ol’ Bob all of that freely. But that won’t clear up his confusion.  
  
Hot headed, obstinate, and unreasonable. He’s all that, too. When he thinks he’s right—which is most of the time—he can dig his heels in like no one I’ve ever known. An’ let me tell you, once he’s got his teeth in somethin’ that stubborn s.o.b. don’t back down for nothin’ or no one, which comes in handy when he’s standin’ between us and the brass—which happens a lot.   
  
Yeah, Chris ain’t exactly a people person. Ask anyone. Most people he don’t even give the time of day. On a good day, the best you can get out of him is a kind of annoyed feigned politeness, which is a damned thin covering over the impression you get that he’s got better things to do than shoot the breeze. Probably does. Like planning out how to smoke out a gunrunner without exposin’ Ezra’s cover. Like writing out those recommendations and commendations that show up regular in our files. Like filling out the insurance and sick leave paperwork when one of us gets hurt, which happens way too often. Sure, Chris is too damn busy to give ya the time of day, but he’ll spend days and nights on end sittin’ in a hard plastic hospital chair, when one of us is down. And, though I ain’t never seen it, rumor has it, he’s sweet-talked a nurse or two into getting J.D. extra of that jiggling jello he likes that the rest of us hate. Or ordering up chocolate ice cream for Vin that last time when he couldn’t keep nothin’ else down. Funniest thing about it is the jackass thinks we don’t notice.   
  
Yup, ask anyone. Larabee don’t give a rat’s ass about other people… ’Cept that he’s taken a few bad hits to protect the public he swore to protect and serve. An’ I’ve seen him walk through rains and hails of gunfire without a second thought when one of his boys is in trouble. Swear to God. Sometimes when I’ve had my heart up in my throat and I’m royally pissed, I call him The Human Shield behind his back—but only behind his back. I’m afraid he might get to liking the name, an’ I don’t want him to make it a habit.   
  
As for little courtesies and small talk? Forget it. Larabee don’t shoot the breeze. He shoots bad guys. Forget the weather. Forget politics. Forget the sports page. Hell, I’ve seen him up and walk away while some guy’s talkin’ to him like the guy wasn’t even there for Chrissakes. But when it comes to talkin’ about himself…? Listen, Chris ain’t a talker, by any stretch of the imagination, but try to dig into his privacy and you might as well be takin’ on a rabid wildcat with a spare set of claws. You’d think bein’ a guy’s virtual right hand since high school would give me some license to talk—‘specially as most of those memories are mine, too. But no. I’ve been cussed out—and worse—just for telling stories about myself that merely  _mention_  Chris. Forget all the really good ones I could tell about him!   
  
His past is his own, he says. An’ we  _especially_  don’t talk about Sarah and Adam. Not in public. And not unless prior approval has been sought, received, and written out in triplicate and we do not deviate from the accepted pattern of said disclosures.   
  
Yes sir, he keeps his shit to himself. Your shit is your shit. My shit is my shit, and you’ll stay out of my shit if you know what’s good for you. Know what I mean? Except he went and gave the six of us—six full-grown men, mind you, who a lot of the time behave like loud, overgrown adolescents—keys, alarm codes, and free rein to make ourselves right at home at the ranch. You know, the home that he used to share with his family. The one with the barn full of horses, half of which belong to us boys. An’ most of the time he never “gets around to” naggin’ us to come do the barn chores we’re s’posed to schedule in. Yet, somehow it seems like one of us is always sprawled on the couch in front of that big screen TV and drinkin’ the beer from that fridge full of shit that Larabee don’t even eat.   
  
And never mind the times he’s crawled under Nathan’s sink—or worse—to fix the plumbing. Our medic’s hands are priceless when one of us is down. An’ his pretty fiancee’s a doctor. But neither one of them knows the first thing about household repair and maintenance. An’ believe me, their house is gonna need some. Last Tuesday, UPS mysteriously delivered a virtual library of home repair books to Nathan’s front door. Maybe between that and the trips to the Home Depot for parts, something will finally sink into Nathan’s thick head.   
  
Never mind, too, that time I was away at some useless seminar, and J.D. “borrowed” my baby, the little red classic pickup that I restored with my own two hands, to drive his pretty little girlfriend Casey to a rodeo, thinkin’ I’d never know. (Boy’s a genius, but sometimes he can be dumber than dirt.) Anyway, comin’ back late, an hour out of town, they slide off the road into the ditch. (Anyone ask me what I think he was doin’ instead of driving?) Not knowin’ what else to do, the brave little shit rousts Larabee out of bed at one in the morning. And Chris not only gives him the number for a tow operator he knows won’t ask too many embarrassing questions about why it ain’t J.D.’s truck or why J.D. ain’t got the insurance card for it, Larabee actually gets in that big black truck of his, and drives an hour and a half through the middle of the night, through the rain, into the middle of nowhere to go get them—no doubt glowering and cussing the whole way there  _and_  the whole way back. But I know for a fact that he spent the next Saturday lookin’ for a ’57 hubcap to replace the one that rolled off into the woods. An’ then he and J.D. got it fastened on right as rain before I got home on Sunday.   
  
The whole thing woulda been a big secret, ‘cept J.D. tells me everything. Ol’ Chris? He ain’t said one single, solitary word about it and probably never will. Though I’m pretty sure he knows I know the whole story.  
  
Now I could explain all that. But I ain’t going to. Instead I just look at Bob and say with a shrug and a well-crafted, rueful, long-suffering sigh. “Larabee? He’s kind of an acquired taste.”   
  
Bob just stares, still confused and still wondering. No doubt he’ll go right back and tell them what an asshole Chris is—and what a shithead I am for staying with him. That’s all fine by me.  
  
Like I said, I could explain. But I don’t. Guy’s been my best friend, hell, my brother, for close to 25 years. Let ‘em think whatever they want to. Hell, whatever Chris wants ‘em to, for all I care. As for me, I know the score. They couldn’t offer me enough to trade.   
  
An’ I don’t have to explain Chris Larabee to anyone.


	2. Inversion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris' POV.

I hate it when he does this. And furthermore, I know he knows that I hate it when he does this.   
  
Bob Dedricks. Current clown up from the DPD. As if coming up to the bullpen is going to make any difference. Coming right on the heels of my “conference” with Standish this morning, no way in hell am I in a mood to make nice with this idiot—or with Buck, for that matter.  
  
‘Cause I know what’s going to happen, sure as I’m standin’ here. Buck’s gonna go with this guy and let the DPD buy him lunch—the biggest steak his conscience will let him, and his conscience gives him a lot of liberty where his stomach is concerned, let me tell you—an’ a couple of beers. Then he’ll tell them no. And he’ll tell them no again. And then he’ll come back here and tell me he told them no. Only he won’t do it as soon as he comes back. He’ll wait until after quitting time, when the rest of the boys have gone. Except J.D., who’ll be out in the hallway, bouncing up and down with impatience waiting while Buck says “I’ll be out in a minute. I need to have a word with Chris.”   
  
Then Buck’ll slide into one of my visitor chairs and look for all the world like he’s meaning to put my mind at ease, telling me he got a job offer, but “Don’t worry Pard. They couldn’t pay me enough to leave.”   
  
And me? I have to play this stupid game again, even though those very words just piss me off. Of course they could pay him enough to leave. And even if I tell him again—for the fourth or fifth time even—that it wouldn’t hurt to think about his own career, he’ll just give me that look. The one I hate.   
  
Well, actually, he has a number of “looks” that I hate. But this one? This is the one that somehow manages to be both hurt and condescending at the same time. Like one part of his brain is saying “How could you think I’d do that to the team?”, while the other part of his brain is saying “Larabee, you’re a moron. After all this time, how is it that you still don’t get it?” Which pisses me off, because that’s exactly what he’s saying, and I know it. And what’s more, god damn it, I know he’s right.  
  
Look, I’m not stupid. I’ve known the guy for over twenty years. I’ve got a pretty good idea of what makes him tick. And I’ve got a pretty good idea of what he thinks about me. I just try not to think about it.  
  
I also know that the Denver PD wants him back. And they want him bad. They want him to head up a special team. And I know, as well as the lieutenant knows, that Buck is  _the_  guy for the job. The lieutenant, a guy Buck and I both know from our time in the DPD, has been holding off setting up this elite task force just because it’s Buck that he’s after. The guy’s called me at home a half a dozen times trying to figure out how to get Buck to say yes. I don’t have the answer. And, hell, if I did, I wouldn’t tell him.  
  
Like I said, I’m not stupid. Putting personal feelings aside, and just thinking about the good of my own team, why the hell would I make it easy for anyone to take my second in command? I built this damn team. And Buck’s one of my key players. Wilmington is one hell of an agent, just like he was one hell of a detective, just like he was one hell of a Navy SEAL. He’s smart. He’s quick. He’s tough as old leather. And he’s got a real way with people, when you get right down to it.   
  
Of course, now that’s another thing that pisses me off about Buck: This way with people. J.D. thinks, and I know because I heard him tell Buck this one day, after me and Buck had a Battle Royale out in my yard over nothing in particular, that it pisses me off because I don’t understand it and I think it’s a waste of time. I don’t think it’s a waste of time. I’m just not good at it. So I let Buck do it. Even though it pisses me off.   
  
To be clear, what pisses me off isn’t that he somehow understands how to put up with all the bullshit people throw at you when they want you to think what they want you to think about them, when they should just cut the crap and get to the chase. Yeah, Buck can read people like they’re easy readers. He knows when they’re blowing shit and when they’re serious. He knows what they’re not saying. And he knows what they want to say but just can’t get the damn words out (That would be me.). That’s a real gift.   
  
What pisses me off is all that Gee Whiz, Aw Shucks, harmless good old boy crap. Take it from me and a place on my jaw that hurts just thinking about it, that Buck is far from harmless. Courtesy of the U.S. Navy, the Denver Police Department, and a lifetime of not so chummy encounters with kids he grew up with, Buck Wilmington is a trained killer. He’s got a spring-loaded right arm with a fist at the end of it that feels like it’s made out of steel. He’s thoroughly proficient in firing a dozen different kinds of weapons. And he knows more about how to go about blowing things up than I care to think about. On top of that, he’s damn smart, shrewd, and savvy enough to know that putting on that long-limbed clown walk, a big shit-eating grin, a ready laugh, and that country boy charm makes the vast majority of people think he’s sweet, kind, and basically stupid. That’s what pisses me off.   
  
Oh, he’s compassionate all right. Right down to his toenails. If you ask me, it wouldn’t be bad for him to spend a little less time taking care of everyone else and take care of his own shit, if you know what I mean. Buck is God’s little caretaker on this earth for all of us messed up, twisted screw-ups who have totally fucked up their own lives and can’t figure out how to get back on track.   
  
It’s taken me years to finally understand that. He keeps me on track with that damn gift of his for convincing people that things will be all right—that they’re not  _that_  fucked up. Not as bad as they think they are anyway.   
  
Not that I’d ever let on, but after… well, after my family got killed, I just might have blown my own fucking head off if I didn’t think I’d have to answer to him at some point in the afterlife. I couldn’t do that to him. And he got me through it. Even though I acted like a complete shit. Completely unforgivable, the way I pushed him away from me, drove him out of my life with everything I had so I could escape. Run away. Get away from everything that reminded me of what was gone. But I had to. I had to start again.   
  
Even after the way I treated him, he still came back, when I came groveling years later. (I’m sure it didn’t come across as groveling, but I was. I just don’t do it well.) I went to the DPD, found him, and asked him to come work for me on my new team. I expected a sock in the jaw and a bitter diatribe listing my numerous faults and sins. I got a big shit-eating grin and an embarrassing, two armed, full forward Buck Wilmington bear hug. Don’t ask me why. Buck’s an idiot like that. He up and left the Denver PD and joined my experimental ATF team, ‘cause I asked him to. You see my point, right? He’s too damn loyal for his own good.   
  
I’m sure he thinks that if he leaves the team, then I’ll go fucking straight to hell, that I’ll do something stupid. That I’ll probably get myself shot dead inside of two weeks. I wouldn’t. I’m over that now—although I apparently do still have a tendency to do stupid stuff (at least according to the rest of the team. Well, Buck, Vin, Nathan, and Josiah, anyway. J.D. can find a way to defend anyone for anything, and what Ezra thinks, he generally ain’t telling. ‘Specially after the shit he pulled today.) An’ I guess I gotta admit that Buck wasn’t exactly wrong when he told me that I ain’t the brightest guy in the world when it comes to my own skin. The truth is, except for the moment I see the fear in Buck’s eyes, I just don’t think about it all that hard.   
  
But that’s no reason for Buck to shackle himself to me, like I’m some goddamn leg iron keeping him from being the top dog he could be. I hate being the albatross around his neck.   
  
He says he can’t leave because J.D. still needs his guidance. Bullshit. J.D.’s a great agent. He’ll get guidance from anywhere he can. That’s the way he works. He’s a genius because he never stops trying to learn new things.   
  
He says no one else is ready to take over second in command. People rise to the occasion, Buck. I’ve trained people before, you know.  
  
He says that without him, the team’s morale would go straight to hell: No spit wads, no rubber chickens, no stupid, asinine, adolescent practical jokes mucking up the work place. True, but now and then, that’s a blessed dream of mine.   
  
I cut through the bullshit. I tell him that leaving this job doesn’t mean losing the team. We know where he lives. He knows where we drink. Hell, he’ll still have free rein to watch my big screen TV on Sunday game days. My home’s always been his home. He knows that. And he knows where he works won’t change that. I tell him if he takes the DPD job he won’t have to put up with my pissed-off attitude every day. The best I ever get for my effort is a little knowing smirk.   
  
So we’ll do the song and dance again when he comes back from lunch with Bob, the messenger boy. And it pisses me off.   
  
What Buck doesn’t know is that the lieutenant called me last night and told me that this might be Buck’s last shot. He asked me not to hold him back. I said I’d never hold Buck back. The lieutenant sighed this big sigh and laid his last card on the table. He told me that I should tell Buck to take the job. That if I told Buck to do it, he would.   
  
That stopped me cold. It might be true. It might work. If I told him to go, he might just think he could, and it would be okay.   
  
But I can’t. Because deep down, I really am a selfish bastard.   
  
Buck Wilmington is one of the best men I’ve ever known. He’s the real thing. True blue to the end. I’d walk on fire for him if he needed me to. Stand in front of blazing artillery for him. Give him the last parachute in a crashing plane. Whatever. My life? My worldly possessions? He can have it. But I can’t set him free.   
  
The truth is I just plain don’t want him to go work for someone else. I want him right where he is—on my right hand, at my back. But what I want shouldn’t enter into it. It’s his life. And his career. So you see, I could never tell him that, even if I could find the words.   
  
Hell, if I know Buck, the bastard’s probably already got it all figured out.


	3. Lingua Franca

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talk is overrated.

The two ATF agents lay flat on their backs in the grass, at angles to each other, breathing hard, each man carefully feeling his way through the quiet rhythmic point and counterpoint of the various complaining, throbbing points of pain along his body. Face. Arms. Ribs. Shoulders. Knuckles. Head. All clamoring to make themselves known generally. Or perhaps in specific places where the voice of pain made its complaint louder and more vigorously before digressing to a low key grumbling, all the while slowly painting red and purple splotches on pale flesh.   
  
The sky revolved above them. Stars began to burn like cinders through the slowly deepening blue of the sky. The grass grew wet. One bat and then another made its weaving and bobbing way over their heads, swinging low under a tree branch. And the pale, silver moon rose like a cork in the inky puddles of clouds still hanging in the darkening sky.   
  
“You really piss me off,” the voice said, breaking the rhythm of hard breathing. The owner of the voice poked his tongue gingerly around his lip, fat, swollen and definitely split beneath his mustache.  
  
A taciturn grunt was the reply. But the man who had spoken read its dual implied meanings easily enough.  _No shit._  And  _Likewise._  
  
Buck Wilmington waited for a more coherent reply. Although he realized waiting would be futile, it often took him a few resentful moments to accept that and move on. After all, someone had to speak up. He turned his thoughts to figuring out how to phrase what he wanted to say in such a way that it didn’t degenerate into another fist fight. Because he doubted he had the strength to have another one. Not tonight.   
  
His eyes slid over to the man lying in the grass beside him. Chris Larabee’s hands pressed against his ribs on the left side where Buck had caught him with a solid kick. He took in Chris’s face, scowling up at the sky. He was pretty sure Chris wouldn’t want to go another round either. Maybe the time had come to discuss it like grown ups.  
  
“What do you want me to do?” he asked quietly.  
  
Chris Larabee rolled his head to the right and looked at Buck with a blazing glare. And Buck knew he was wrong. Chris could well get up and start right over again. But he didn’t. He answered. Real slow. Low down in his throat and lethal. The same tone he used when “suggesting” to bad guys that they drop their weapons, unless they preferred to die slowly and painfully.   
  
“I want,” the blond grated out, each carefully enunciated word vibrating with anger. “you to make the decision that’s best. For you. No one else. Just you.”  
  
Chris rolled his head back to the left and faced the sky. On purpose. Hiding his expression. Now Buck would have to get up if he wanted to look Chris in the face. He was on his own.  
  
It was all Buck could do not to reach out one leg and kick whichever limb of Chris’s might be within range of a hard whack with one well-trained heel. He waited and let the urge pass.   
  
“Well what do  _you_  want?” Buck tried again.  
  
Chris clenched his teeth together so hard, the shooting pain from his jaw shot up into his temple. He was tempted to roll his head back to the right and repeat exactly what he had just said. But then Buck would probably kick him or something. And then he’d have to get up and start the fist fight all over again. But he was too damn tired for all that.   
  
He sighed. He hadn’t meant to. But now that he had, he could feel Buck’s proverbial ears perk up at the sound, like a big dog’s. The thought of how easy it was for Buck to read him at the most inopportune times made him glower. He felt better for glowering. He growled back his answer.   
  
“Fuck what I want,” he snarled. “What the hell does it matter what I want?” He rolled up to a sitting position, putting his back toward Buck and began dusting the grass off his pant legs.   
  
Typical.   
  
Buck rolled his eyes. Now he couldn’t see Chris’s face at all.  _Coward,_  Buck thought exasperatedly.  _Idiot,_  he thought right after.  
  
“I’ll tell ‘em no, then,” Buck said confidently, as if to himself, as if he had suddenly come to the answer.   
  
“Take the job, Buck,” Chris replied, without even looking back over his shoulder, but nevertheless blowing Buck’s carefully crafted confident pretense into tiny little pieces. It pissed Buck off, how easy Chris did that. Read when he was lying. Because Buck and Chris both knew that before long, Buck was going to get mad, and sooner or later truths would come tumbling right out, whether he wanted Chris to know them or not.  
  
This time he vowed to hold out longer.   
  
“I don’t want the job,” he shot back, with convincing irritation.   
  
Apparently not convincing enough.   
  
“Take the job, Buck,” Chris repeated firmly, climbing to his feet abruptly and signaling the end of the conversation.   
  
He got only two steps before Buck shot both feet out, snaring Chris in mid step and hurling him to the ground with a hard thump.   
  
Chris swore savagely. Buck barely had time to get off his back before Larabee was all over him like a wolverine. Several more sound blows later, Chris had him pinned. Leaning into his face.   
  
“Take the god damn fucking stupid job,” Chris snarled.   
  
Buck waited a heartbeat, then took advantage of a weakness in Chris’s hold. It took a jab to the sore ribs to get in the kick to the chin that sent the blond sprawling across the grass. Buck wasted no time in pinning him belly down, using height and weight to his advantage.  
  
“Why should I?” Buck snapped back, breathing hard, practically speaking into Chris’s ear.  
  
Face half mashed into the grass, Chris was hard pressed to breathe, let alone reply. Buck let his head up just enough so he could hear.   
  
“Because I said so.” The words had worked their way to the front of Chris’s brain. But he choked on them. And absolutely nothing came out.  
  
“I didn’t hear you,” Buck taunted.  
  
“Fuck you,” Chris shot back. That came out easily enough. Shoulders straining upward, he bent his neck forward to make a space to breathe.  
  
Buck knew Chris was searching for a way out of the hold now. He tightened his grips, knowing that Chris would find one anyway. Eventually. He remembered once when Chris popped out his own shoulder to crawl out of a pin. That was different, of course. That guy was trying to take him prisoner and drag him off to some dark third world cement block cell.   
  
A moment too late, Buck realized that the inattention of memory was the moment Chris was waiting for. The blond launched himself forward with knees and toes, getting just far enough to twist his upper body around. Knowing better, but somehow unable to figure it out in time, Buck lunged forward after him. And then Chris had him around the neck, in a headlock, pulling his head down into the grass like a piledriver, even as Larabee climbed to his knees for leverage.   
  
Ignoring the way his face hit the grass, Buck threw both arms around Chris’s middle and delivered all he was worth into a crushing squeeze. He heard the breath rush out with a hard grunt. And he drove his weight, shoulder first into Chris’s chest. That did it. He felt Chris’s grip break open as they fell to the right. Then the edge of a hand clocked him hard in the temple, and a knee hit him in the ribs. Chris slithered out of his grasp, kicking out hard. He rolled free, doubling over for a brief moment before stubbornly climbing to his feet.   
  
Buck rose to his feet opposite. He tasted blood and realized it was now pouring out of his nose.   
  
They circled each other warily, breathing hard.   
  
Chris was the first to speak again. “The pay’s good,” he said. “The opportunity is perfect. You’ll be working for people you respect. Who’ll respect you back.”   
  
Despite a split lip and a temporary difficulty catching his breath, Larabee’s tone remained even, rational, almost conversational, as if they were sitting in Chris’s office, with Buck’s feet up on the corner of Chris’s desk. In mid shake of his head at how Chris could do that, the words suddenly struck Buck.  
  
“How do you know the pay’s good?” he asked suspiciously.  
  
There was silence. Buck narrowed his eyes. He waited for Chris to say he knew of similar positions or that since the Denver PD had to use something to tempt him away, a pay hike seemed likely. Or even that he had looked the pay scale up in public records. All valid answers. But Chris had not said any of those. The years had taught him how to understand Larabee speak. His silence told the truth.   
  
Now Buck understood. Chris knew about the pay and, it seemed, the chain of command, because someone had talked to him about the job.  
  
Buck’s brain flew down the possible reasons why. Likely, Chris had been tapped first. But what could they offer him? It would be a step back for an ATF Team Leader. Plus, there was a small but vocal faction of veterans and brass who would lobby hard against the idea of bringing Larabee back to the DPD after the way he had left. Not that Buck could blame them exactly. Chris had burned some bridges behind him. Deliberately. Lit them up with kerosene. And stranded Buck on the other side, while he made his escape out of his job, out of his home, and right out of Buck’s life.  
  
He shook the thought away and moved on to the only other likely option. If Chris hadn’t been tapped first, someone had given him the information. Buck had been a cop and federal agent too long not to know an intentional leak when he saw one. He narrowed his eyes in thought. Why would someone who wanted to steal an employee away give the man’s boss information about the bait they were trying to lure him away with? Unless they wanted Chris to know? Or wanted Chris to do something with the information?  
  
Buck’s eyes narrowed, as it occurred to him. The Denver PD knew why he’d turned them down all right. The lieutenant, in evident frustration, had as much as told Buck that Chris was holding him back.   
  
Chris could actually see Buck thinking. He stood there watching Buck add up the evidence. And he cursed himself for being too damn slow to come up with any kind of suitable answer fast enough to put Buck off. He thought of his glib undercover agent, who would have had no trouble coming up with something plausible right out of thin air. He cursed Standish just for the hell of it.   
  
Buck gave him a hard stare. And Chris flinched. Now Buck  _knew_  he was right. The god damn DPD wanted Chris to tell him to take the job. And Chris, god damn stupid bastard, was going to do it. Do their dirty work for them.   
  
A stream of curses telling Chris where to go and what to do to himself when he got there rose right up into Buck’s throat. But he stopped.   
  
Suddenly confused, he sucked in a breath.   
  
“You think I should take the job?” he asked, leaning his head to one side, trying to read the look on Chris’s face in the falling darkness. His left cheekbone was throbbing.   
  
Chris ignored the uncertainty in Buck’s voice, and bent over, his hands over his knees, hanging his head down and avoiding looking his old friend in the face.   
  
He concentrated instead on his throbbing ribs, where a god damn two-legged anaconda with a cheesy mustache had squeezed his insides like they were Play-doh. He pulled himself together and put on his best dispassionate, matter of fact tone. “Yes. I think you should take the job.” He did not look up.   
  
Buck chewed the side of his lip that was not swollen, cocking his head a little farther, just the way Chris did when he was thinking, and realizing at that moment how much Chris had rubbed off on him over the years.   
  
He was not surprised when, almost as if reading his mind, Chris raised his head at that moment to regard Buck with a perfect poker face. Perfect except for that searching gaze that always made Buck feel like Chris could see right through him.   
  
Since he had not yet heard a reply, nor received a fist or foot to the face, Chris considered that perhaps Buck had not heard him.   
  
But Buck’s slow, thoughtful question told him otherwise. “’Cause it’s a good opportunity?”   
  
Chris snorted, knowing full well the question what Buck was not asking. A question he dreaded coming.   
  
He chose to play along. “It’s the perfect opportunity,” Chris said. “And one you’re not going to get any time soon at the ATF.”  
  
He saw Buck’s fist clench suddenly and clamped his teeth together before a smart ass “unless I get killed,” escaped his lips and earned him another set of knuckle prints on his face.   
  
Buck heard it coming, almost as if Chris had spoken it. And he waited, fist loaded and ready to fire as soon as Chris made some nasty crack about getting killed on the job and Buck taking over. It both surprised and relieved him, a heartbeat later, to realize it hadn’t been said. He exhaled slowly, quietly. So Chris wouldn’t hear.   
  
“I’m telling them no,” Buck said firmly, as matter of fact as Chris had been a moment ago.  
  
Chris straightened up and skewered him with an exasperated glare. The gathering darkness prevented Buck from seeing it fully, but he didn’t need to. He understood perfectly. And he knew that Chris was lining up one more volley of convincing evidence.   
  
So he interrupted the blond before he could speak. And played the guilt card.   
  
“You want me to take it?” Buck asked accusingly.   
  
The direct question.   
  
And Chris fell right into the trap. His eyes widened for a split second. “Hell no,” he said, the truth shooting right out of him before he even had a chance to think, reminding him why he preferred to fight with Buck rather than argue. At least he had a chance to win a fight. God damn, Buck. Sooner or later Buck always made him tell the truth.  
  
Chris watched with irritation as a self-satisfied grin spread across Buck’s face, erasing for a moment the various lumps beginning to distort the bigger man’s much-bragged about good looks.  
  
“You don’t want me to go,” Buck said slowly and precisely. There was a note of triumph in his voice.   
  
Chris rolled his eyes to hear it. Not that it was even a question. And even if it was, what was he supposed to say? Deny it? Buck didn’t need confirmation from him. Hell, Buck knew the truth when he heard it. And he wasn’t going to get the satisfaction of making Chris say it again.  
  
Buck shifted his weight and Chris backed up. He’d been beaten, kicked, squeezed, and pummeled, then tricked into admitting the truth. Hell if he was going to let Buck complete his victory by trying to wrap him into one of those embarrassing bear hugs.  
  
Buck watched Chris back up. Watched his eyes stray off to the side. But Buck wasn’t through enjoying his victory yet. He bent slightly, snaking his head sideways to catch Chris’s eye.  
  
Caught. Fairly. Where he knew it was written all over his face. “God damn it,” Chris swore. He turned abruptly on his heel and headed for the house.  
  
The grin never left Buck’s face as he fell in step behind Larabee.  
  
“But you tried to convince me to go anyway,” Buck said, his tone taking on something that sounded suspiciously like gloating.  
  
“Shut up,” Chris retorted, stepping up the pace toward the front porch.  
  
He made it only to the first of the porch steps. Buck’s hand on his arm turned him around to face him.   
  
From a higher vantage point on the step, Chris looked impatiently down at his second in command. His long time friend. “What?” he snapped, still angry at himself for not having the guts to go through with it, to convince Buck to leave him and the team and grab for the brass ring. It was a plum job. Buck deserved it. Why couldn’t he see that?   
  
The big gleeful grin softened as Buck shook his head, sympathetically, condescendingly. And Chris could hear Buck’s voice in the back of his head.  _“Larabee, you moron.”_ And yet again, he couldn’t fathom what point he had missed this time.  
  
Chris’s eyebrows met at the bridge of his nose and Buck could feel aggravation bristle off of him like fire off a Fourth of July sparkler. He resisted the urge to laugh. Not everybody got to see Chris Larabee discomfited and off balance. Then again, not everybody got to whale the tar out of him either. Not that he had won, exactly, Buck amended, gingerly feeling his nose.   
  
“What?” Chris demanded again, curtly, irritated, cutting through Buck’s thoughts.  
  
Buck looked up at his old friend. Chris was still standing there, glowering at him. Was he waiting for an answer? Buck frowned slightly, wondering whether it had finally occurred to Chris that maybe he was missing something, while he was trying so hard to convince Buck to take the job. Of all people, Chris would know that there was more than just pay and promotion that figured into Buck’s career choices. But it would never occur to Chris that he might be one of those factors. Buck shook his head.  _Numbskull,_ he thought.   
  
He skewered Chris with a sharp look. Penetrating. Yeah, he knew what Chris was trying to do. And it irritated the hell out of him that Larabee was willing to do it, too.   
  
When he spoke, Buck’s voice was quiet, but the question was pointed. “Where’s it written that you always have to give up what  _you_  want?”   
  
Chris glared at him now, full force, steel melting, nasty tempered, and hot. “Where’s it written that you have to give up what  _you_  want,” he retorted, throwing it right back at him.   
  
Buck pursed his lips and glared back.   
  
Chris turned and stalked up the steps and into the house.   
  
He left the door open behind him because he knew Buck would follow.   
  
And Buck did, knowing full well that he would never have thought of doing anything else.   
  
”You moron,” Buck said coming in the door, shutting it behind him.  
  
 _Well at least you said it out loud,_  Chris thought bitterly, heading toward the downstairs bathroom and the medicine cabinet, snapping on the light.  
  
Buck appeared beside him.   
  
They stared at their reflections in the mirror. Side by side, bruised and bloodied. They caught each other’s eyes suddenly and the anger vanished, replaced by matching looks of chagrin. But they both knew the chagrin was not for behaving like idiots. Hell, neither one of them was sorry about that. The chagrin was purely because they were going to have to explain to Nathan and the others that they had been behaving like idiots.  
  
But hell, who said they had to confess? Instead, they exchanged a look that vowed silence. Neither of them would give their teammates the satisfaction of a single dropped word or excuse come Monday.  
  
Chris reached in front of Buck and pulled out a bottle of peroxide and some gauze pads. He handed them to Buck.  
  
And noticed that Buck was still looking at him expectantly.   
  
Chris sighed. Was he still waiting for him to answer?   
  
Buck rolled his eyes in exasperation. He fingered his bloodied nose, and inspected his split lip closely before standing back and gesturing at his reflection. “Take the job,” he snorted mockingly. “Why the hell would I want to give all this up?”  
  
Chris’s return look tried for nasty but missed the mark. “I can beat the crap out of you when you’re off duty,” he offered. Last ditch. And lame.   
  
Buck laughed through his split lip, although the mere sound of it echoing off the bathroom tile made his head ache. “Easy enough, since you’ll be making up my schedule,” Buck replied easily. But his tone was clear. His mind was made up. And the conversation was over.   
  
Chris sighed and set to work cleaning off his scraped up knuckles. He said nothing.   
  
Buck looked at him a long time from the corner of his eye. Amazing how a guy that smart could be so damn thick sometimes. He had faith that one day Larabee would get it. But sometimes, the thick-headed idiot needed a little push in the right direction.   
  
He nudged Chris with the point of his elbow.   
  
“I  _am_ where I want to be,” he said firmly. “An’ I’m not giving it up.”  
  
Chris studied his friend’s bruised face. While Buck watched the wheels turning behind Chris’s eyes.   
  
“They may not ask again,” Chris said. The words were meant as a warning, but something in the bottom of the tone sounded almost hopeful somehow.   
  
“Good,” Buck replied.   
  
Chris still had his doubts in Buck’s ability to put himself first. But he heard the certainty in the man’s tone.   
  
Chris nodded once, short, terse. “Okay,” he said, quietly. A calm settled suddenly over him, the tension flowing out of his shoulders.   
  
He glanced up to catch Buck’s reflection in the mirror. Grinning at him, familiar, evil, and somehow invitational. Promising long strings of trouble, mayhem, disciplinary reports, annoying habits, juvenile pain-in-the-ass practical jokes, and knock-down drag-out fights out in the yard. For years and years to come. To match all the ones strung out behind them. For years and years in the past.   
  
He looked back down at his knuckles. So Buck poked him with his elbow again.   
  
This time Chris gave him an annoyed glance. But Buck noted, with childish glee, how utterly Chris failed at hiding both the smirk that twitched up the corners of his lips and that familiar conspiratorial gleam in the back of his eye.   
  
-the end-


End file.
